


i never meant to have to start all over (without you)

by softbruise



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Genre: M/M, congratulations eleanor on finishing ur exams this fic is for u, soft boys who grew up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 16:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11188755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softbruise/pseuds/softbruise
Summary: “Do you remember?” he asked. “The harp, the grey foxes, and the sword, and the Dark?”Bran smiled faintly, a small and beautiful thing on his pale face. And he did not reply for a time, and Will thought to himself,I cannot bear it if he does not.And the thought surprised him, and he wondered where it had come from, and realised it was true.





	i never meant to have to start all over (without you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acrosticacrumpet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acrosticacrumpet/gifts).



> i wrote this in like less than an hour while very tired and i havent read dir in a long time so its probably ooc please forgive me i just love my boys

The water that stretched out before him was clear and shining: the sky was grey and bright in the way that Welsh skies are, in the hollow length of summer. Will Stanton looked out at the land, and the water, and the sky, with a kind of strange melancholy brought so often in the early days of July, and let his chin rest on his knees. He was taller now than he had been the last time he had come to this place, and the boy beside him taller still; Will had the passing thought that there was much of his father in him.

 “It doesn’t seem so very long ago,” Bran said, and despite the wind his voice carried clearly. “That we were here, as children.”

“And yet it seems far away,” Will replied.

“And yet it seems far away.”

They sat in silence once more, for a time, until Will could stand it no longer; he looked at Bran beside him, and tried to keep the desperation from his gaze, and knew he had failed.

“Do you remember?” he asked. “The harp, the grey foxes, and the sword, and the Dark?”

Bran smiled faintly, a small and beautiful thing on his pale face. And he did not reply for a time, and Will thought to himself, _I cannot bear it if he does not._ And the thought surprised him, and he wondered where it had come from, and realised it was true.

“I remember,” Bran said slowly. “Many strange things which seem now much less strange than they ought. A great city, and the weight of a sword in my hand, and a man in a blue robe. And – you, beside me. In a cottage, and in the mountains, and perhaps – in another time. I remember that you were with me, and I was not afraid.”

Will thought, for a long and sharp moment, in which tears first prick threateningly behind one’s eyes, that he might cry. He said, “Bran Pendragon. Bran Davies. It is good to be here with you.” And he found that he was not crying, but that he was laughing: that a strange and wild joy had overtaken him.

And Bran turned to face him, and grinned, a fierce grin that split his face open beneath his owl-eyes, and laughed too. He said, “Will Stanton.” He reached out, and took Will’s hand, and grasped it firmly, and they sat that way for a long time.

When the laughter had faded a little, and the wind had died away, Will said: “I knew that it could not be taken from you – that even in another time, in another world, you could never be anything other than what you are. Your heritage, your father – I could not believe that it was lost to you forever.”

“But you didn’t come,” Bran said, softly.

Will fell silent. How could he answer? _I was afraid. I was afraid that I would look at you and you would not know me. Or that you would know me, and not know why. Or that you would know me, and hate me, and spurn that which I came here to offer you. And this last I still do not know the truth of, and I am afraid, and I do not want to tell you._

He said, simply, “I couldn’t.”

But Bran was not content. He shook his head, unhappily, his face tight with something Will could not read. “You could have. In five years, you could have. I was alone, and John Rowlands did not remember, and I began to wonder if perhaps I had made it up – if perhaps those things, those bright colours and songs I remembered so strongly, were some strange dream.”

Will was quiet.

“And my father appeared to me in dreams, and spoke to me of a time I did not know. Of things I should not have remembered. I remembered the harp, the grey foxes, and the sword, and the Dark. And I remembered you. And I could not tell anyone, and I spent five years thinking that perhaps the only time I had been unafraid was when you were with me, and that perhaps you would never be with me again.” He smiled wryly. “It occurred to me that Owen Davies and I might not have been of the same blood, but we were similar in one regard. The ones we loved came to us from far away, and left us again.”

Something of his words, or the tone of them, struck Will so hard he almost fell back with the weight of it. He realised that Bran’s hand was no longer in his: he reached out for it, and gripped Bran’s fingers tightly.

“You are not alone,” he said. “And you do not ever need to be afraid again. I’m sorry I didn’t come for you. I was – I’m afraid.”

“What is there to be afraid of, Will Stanton?” Bran tilted his head. “It’s only me, and you, and the mountains.”

 _The most terrifying things in the world,_ Will thought. He looked at the water below them, and then at Bran, and then at their hands, against the green grass and his scuffed shoes. “If I am to have you, Bran Davies, I will have all of you. I don’t want anything left behind.”

Bran met Will’s gaze, and looked down at their hands, as Will had. He said, “I don’t want to be afraid anymore. And I don’t want to be alone.”

“Then come with me. Come with me, and the Light need never work through you as it works through me, and you can stay free. And I won’t leave you, and neither of us will be afraid.” Will put a hand on Bran’s shoulder, and felt him sink into the contact until Will let his arms fall over him, feeling rather than seeing.

Will held him, there, on that cliff, until the light began to fade, and when Bran looked up at him, he pressed a chaste kiss to Bran’s lips, and they stood.

“I have loved you for a long time,” Bran said to him. “Perhaps ever since you arrived here, and loved Wales like I did.”

“I am the same,” said Will. “And I am not Guinevere to leave so easily. Don’t worry, Bran Davies. For as long as you want me, I am yours.”

When at last they stood to walk back to the farm, the sun had begun to set: two figures, hands clasped, making their way down the mountain in the dusk of the day. Will looked at the sky, and smiled. The war was over, and Bran Pendragon remembered him, and the water was still clear and shining.

He would live on; as for what would happen to a son of one of the Higher Powers, he who was born in one time and lived in another? Will did not know. But for now, they were happy, and they were unafraid, and they were not alone.

It was enough.


End file.
